


Beautiful Depravity

by SD_Ryan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Butts, Consensual Rough Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post S3, Roleplay, Safe Sane and Consensual, Schmoop, TW: Unhealthy fantasies, TW: drug use, TW: junkie ideation, Triggers, kriskenshin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So yes, it was problematic that John found Sherlock so unbelievably sexy while decked out in clothing that inhabited a secret corner of John’s brain labeled “Shezza”—but not so problematic that John bothered fighting his lust when Sherlock lounged around the flat looking so much like his junkie alter-ego."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Depravity

 

It was problematic for any number of reasons, John couldn’t deny this. He was a doctor and as such, fetishizing any kind of illness was just not on. But he comforted himself with the knowledge that Sherlock had been clean for years, and the issue that had driven the man to relapse in the first place (namely John’s absence from his life) had been permanently, resolutely resolved. Sherlock may not yet wear his ring, but they were lifelong partners in every sense of the word.

So yes, it was problematic that John found Sherlock so unbelievably sexy while decked out in clothing that inhabited a secret corner of John’s brain labeled “Shezza”—but not so problematic that John bothered fighting his lust when Sherlock lounged around the flat looking so much like his junkie alter-ego.

It was unspoken, for sure. John never said a word. Never encouraged Sherlock to slip into a pair of sweatpants, save off showering for an extra day, or keep hold of the tattered old hoodie that perhaps ought to be binned. But Sherlock knew nonetheless. Sherlock always knew. And if he sauntered into the sitting room with day-old scruff on his chin and a complete disregard for his usual flawless fashion sense, it was a given he and John would end up on the floor within the hour, naked and sweaty.

John was just home from a shift at the clinic. It had been slow all morning, so Sarah set him loose halfway through the afternoon. He’d taken advantage of the free time with a leisurely stroll through Regent’s Park. It wasn’t long, however, before Baker Street called to him, and he wound his way towards home. 

“Sherlock,” he called as he ascended the stairs. “Got off early! You have anything on this afternoon?”

He caught the man in John’s chair of all places, legs crossed, laptop resting between his thighs—and looking devastating in a pair of dirty sweats and a threadbare tee.

“Oh, hellooo.” John couldn’t help the flirtatious lilt of that greeting. It was automatic; born of habit. It reminded him of his uni days, chasing pretty girls down at the campus pub. The only pretty thing he wanted right now was looking over his shoulder at John with sloe eyes and a delighted grin.

Sherlock set the laptop down and performed a graceful leap over the back of the chair. He settled himself on the spine of the soft tartan seat and stretched a leg out—deliberately relaxed. John smirked, anticipation thrumming. He licked his lips as he approached his disheveled eye-candy and casually rested a hand on the chair next to Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock said nothing, but he glanced down to where John’s hand almost met his and silently closed the distance, brushing his thumb along John’s index finger. John’s cock twitched in response, and he leaned into the V of Sherlock’s parted legs.

“So, what are you doing?” John asked, trying his best not to sound smarmy and failing miserably. 

The detective’s wicked grin spread slowly, and just when John thought he might not answer, he lifted a brow and murmured, “Hopefully you.”

John barked out a laugh and wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, drawing him into a toothy, sloppy snog. Sherlock met the kiss easily, his own laughter rocking through both of them as he pawed at John’s prim moss-coloured cardigan.  

“What are you wearing?” Sherlock asked as he pulled away with a gasp. “You look like my father.”

“Oi! You’re one to talk …” John knew it was wrong— _knew it was wrong_ —but he said it anyway. “…Shezza.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and a thin smile spread across his face. “I knew it. I knew you had a thing for my junkie past.”

“Sherlock!”

Relentless, Sherlock advanced, hands on Johns hips, walking him backwards until they were across the room and knocking into the kitchen table. “I’m sick, doctor. Will you help me?” 

“Sherl—” John’s breath caught in his throat.

“Will you fuck the sickness right out of me?” 

This was light years from okay, John knew, but he couldn’t help it. Everything—Sherlock’s dirty leer, his tangled curls, his rumpled clothes—was pointing John toward one blinding conclusion. John wanted him. Couldn’t deny it. Didn’t fucking want to deny it. He watched Sherlock’s pupils dilate, aware of the arousal, yet attributing that glassy look to much more nefarious origins. _It’s just pretend_ , John told himself. _It’s just a scene_. And with that flimsy bit of comfort, he let go.

“Yes,” John choked out. “Yes, I want to fuck the sickness out of you.”

“Good.”

In one swift move Sherlock snatched something from the kitchen table, hooked his leg behind John’s knee, and pulled both of them down to the floor. 

“Then fuck me.” 

John somehow landed on top of the man, sprawled and winded. He recovered quickly when Sherlock opened his legs and none-too-subtly pressed up. John groaned at the feel of that insistent bulge under a thin layer of cotton. He bent down, taking Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth, and rocked against him, slow and steady.

“Ugh,” Sherlock groaned as he slipped free from the gentle bite and set to exploring John’s mouth. 

 _I could do this forever_ , John thought while a drowsy warmth spread through his legs and up his spine. _I could just grind myself to completion like a bloody teenager._ He clasped Sherlock’s right hand in his left and pressed a bruising grip to the floor. Sherlock’s legs opened wider as keening cries fell from his mouth. 

“Stop teasing, John, and _fuck me_.” 

“Your wish … Shezza,” he breathed against Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock moaned and thrust hard. “Say it again,” he whispered. “Say it again.”

John licked a stripe across Sherlock’s jaw, tasting salty sweat and something vaguely chemical. It was filthy and depraved and perfect. “Shezza, I’m going to fuck you into the floor.“

Sherlock’s breath stuttered, and John looked up just in time to catch the hummingbird-like flutter of his eyelids. Pale face, framed in a tangled halo of curls. Obscene lips, flushed and pink. Hooded eyes, pupils blown wide. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything so beautiful. 

“Gorgeous,” he whispered, and Sherlock snorted.

“Stop being sentimental.” The words were harsh, though they lacked bite. “Here. You’ll need this.” He thrust a bottle into John’s free hand and reached down to work on the closure of John’s trousers.  

When he saw the bottle of sunflower oil, John’s shock lasted only a moment. Of course Sherlock was ready; of course he’d improvised this solution. It wasn’t exactly his first choice of lubricant, but they’d used worse. And anyway, something about this set up demanded the quick and dirty option.

John made fast work of Sherlock’s sweatpants, pulling them down low enough that Sherlock could kick them off. His prick sprang up and nodded happily. Without so much as a how-do-you-do, John bent down and took Sherlock into his mouth, drawing a long, loud moan from the detective. 

“Oh, God. Oh, John.” 

John started slow, bobbing shallowly until Sherlock’s cock was slick with saliva. Then he dove deeper, feeling a satisfying press at the back of his throat. He wrapped a hand around the base and stroked in time with his mouth while Sherlock trembled and tensed beneath him. John was beyond grateful for his multi-tasking skills as he continued to suck Sherlock off while slicking the fingers of his free hand. He nudged Sherlock’s thighs apart then reached between the cleft of his arse and gently stroked.

He hummed when his fingers slid across the tight ring of muscle, and Sherlock gasped and bucked in response. By the time he’d worked Sherlock loose and open with first one, then two, then three fingers, John’s jaw was sore, and Sherlock was babbling a string of unintelligible curses. 

“Now, John. Jesus, you’re going to kill me if you don’t do it now.” 

John rolled to his side and stripped his trousers and pants in record time. A few slick strokes of his prick, and he was shivering in anticipation. He sat up on his knees and scooted forward until Sherlock’s plush arse rested on his thighs and those long pale legs were draped over his shoulders. He tilted toward Sherlock and lined up, taking a moment to revel in anticipation. 

Beyond desperate, with wild eyes and scrabbling fingers, Sherlock snarled, “I swear to God, John, you have no idea the pain I will inflict if you don’t—ngh!” 

John pushed forward with one long, smooth stroke until his pelvis was seated firmly against Sherlock’s arse. “Happy?” he said through gritted teeth as he fought the urge to immediately start pounding. 

“Better,” Sherlock squeaked, and John returned a tight grin.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and after a moment, managed to relax around him. He met John’s gaze, looking— _fuck_ —gorgeous and rumpled and so fucking vulnerable. Then he nodded, and with exquisite care, John started to move. 

For a long while, John kept his pace slow and gentle. When Sherlock clawed John’s thighs, he bucked. When Sherlock thumped his heels against John’s back, he pressed harder. When Sherlock mocked, “I thought you wanted to fuck Shezza, John, not make love to Sherlock,” John slammed home with a violent, unmeasured thrust.  

And he didn’t stop. 

Sweat dripping, arms trembling, heart thudding, and lungs burning, John pounded into Shezza—Sherlock—Shezza. Who the fuck knew at this point? It was all a rainbow fog: brain scrambled and senses overloaded. The scolding voices in the back of his head had long been silenced, and all he heard now was the steady sound of his lover’s moans and the slap of their connecting bodies. 

Heat coiled in the pit of John’s stomach, and he knew he was close. He grasped Sherlock’s cock and stroked once, twice, before a flood of wet warmth flowed over his fingers. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his face a portrait of beautiful ruin, and John followed him over, coming with a stuttering jerk.

John collapsed on his side, letting Sherlock’s legs fall, but keeping their connection a little while longer. He felt unbalanced, as though the floor was rocking beneath him.

“Holy fuck, Sherlock." 

“Hmm…” was all Sherlock could manage.

John smiled and gingerly pulled himself out. He rolled Sherlock to his side and spooned behind the reedy git, wrapping a protective arm around his chest.  

“Oh my God, I love you.” He pressed a kiss between Sherlock's shoulder blades and licked the salt from his lips.

“I know that,” Sherlock murmured, a smile in his voice. “But the real question is: Do you love Shezza?”

John laughed. “I love Shezza and Sherlock and William and whatever other bloody idiot you decide to bring to our bed.” John pulled Sherlock closer, knowing they’d have to get up soon, but not quite ready for that. “I love _you,_ you ponce. Always.”

 Sherlock laced his fingers with John’s and pulled his hand up to his lips. “And I you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to KrisKenshin, as always, for her wonderful inspiration. In this case, the beautiful artwork she created which inspired this outpouring of fictional sex. Yay! She's lovely. Check her out: http://kriskenshin.tumblr.com/post/74352686267/j-what-are-you-doing-s-hopefully-you-j
> 
> This was my first foray into Johnlock buttsecks, so I'm a little nervous. Hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> I feel it needs to be said: While fun, I know this fic raises some troubling suppositions, and I've tagged most of them above. Among the many problematic elements in this scenario, the greatest transgression I see is John's view on Sherlock's recovery. I don't agree with his position that Sherlock's fall into drug abuse was due solely to his absence or was solved solely by his return to Sherlock's life. John's an awesome guy, but (at least in my hands) he has his flaws.
> 
> Then again, you could just read this as a fun jaunt, and yay, we're back to the buttsecks.
> 
> I'm working on a multi-chap post-s3 Johnlock fic with about 3 chapters under my belt so far. I don't want to post until I get a little farther along, and I could really a beta, britpick, or pre-reader (or all three!). If you'd like to see some of my work before the rest of the world does, please get in touch.
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> xoxo,  
> S.D.


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